


third chance

by Marcia Elena (marciaelena)



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Post-Episode: s05e22 Not Fade Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 15:31:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14452251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marciaelena/pseuds/Marcia%20Elena
Summary: Connor makes his choice.





	third chance

**Author's Note:**

> Set immediately after 'Not Fade Away'. Written September 2004.

"Go," Angel says. 

And Connor does. But not where Angel thinks he should go. 

He hurries through the crumbling corridors of Wolfram & Hart, dodging debris, seeking the training room he remembers. The one where the weapons are. The one where his father told him he wasn't alone in this. He's going to show Angel that he isn't alone, either.

Angel's gone already by the time Connor comes back to the lobby. But he has Angel's scent, so strong and familiar, woven so intrinsically into his bones that not even the hard rain outside can completely erase it. And so he goes. He follows his father across alleys and rooftops, cursing the weight of the weapons strapped to him for slowing him down, yet knowing that he shouldn't waste all his strength in a mad rush through the night, knowing that the weapons he's carrying will help more than hinder once he's in the midst of it. There's only one thought pulsing in his mind: Angel. Angel needs him. His father–-he _needs_ him. 

Angel saved him. He proved it. 

It's Connor's turn now.

The closer Connor gets to the center of this night's action the more people he meets running in the opposite direction, fleeing in panic, and he has to stop several times to kill the stray demons hunting them down. He does it as quickly as he can and moves on, always on, always closer to his father. His thoughts move briefly to his adoptive family, and he's reassured by the fact that they don't live in L.A. He knows they're safe for now, that whatever's going on is still localized here, and he intends to help keep it that way. 

The fight's clearly already well under way by the time Connor reaches his father's location. From his vantage point atop a building he spots Angel right away, fighting with grim determination, no real hope in his expression, but so much courage that Connor feels pride swell in him. Gunn's on the ground--dead, his neck turned in an unnatural angle, his mouth and eyes open, filling with rainwater. Illyria is slashing and tearing through the demon horde, her face a mask of bloodlust and grief. Grief so naked that Connor feels it slice through him, and he has to draw in a deep breath to steady himself. He scans the alley, looking for Wesley, remembering what his father had told him just this morning about Wesley and Fred, trying in vain to find him. He's not here. Another pang of grief stabs at Connor, surprising him--they're all dead, he realizes all of a sudden. Fred and Wesley and Gunn, Cordy--all gone. All the people he knew, the people he loved and hated, all dead. Before the bigger wave of emotion surging up in him manages to crest, a shrill cry echoes through the air, and Connor looks up at the sky to see Spike mounted on a winged beast, fighting it with fists and fangs and stabs, yelling words that Connor can't quite make out. When he brings his eyes back to the fight below, he seeks Angel out again, feeling his pulse race as he watches him cut a demon down with his sword, and another, his coat swirling around him as he twists and turns, blocking an incoming blow, all purpose and deadly grace. There are bodies strewn everywhere in the alley, the living stepping over the dead as they fight, using them as shields, growls of fury and pain filling the night. 

Memories of Quor-toth rise in him for a moment, but he doesn't let fear take hold. He draws in another deep breath and focuses his will on the reason he's here as he jumps into the melee, his heart pounding faster as his father snaps a demon in two and turns around, his eyes finding Connor's through the distance between them, unerring. 

"No!" Angel shouts. But there isn't time for anything else.

Demons close in around them, and there's no choice but to strike, kick and slash and chop, stab and punch and kick again, and again, battle rage taking over Connor's instincts, beating inside him in time with his blood. The invisible cord tying his father and him together tugs at Connor as he fights, tugs at Angel, pulling them both closer and closer to each other, clearing a circle around them until they're fighting the enemy back to back, side by side, elation singing through Connor even as he sees Illyria go down. 

The ax that Connor's holding slides in his grip, his hands slick with blood, and he plants his feet harder on the slippery asphalt, hurling the weapon at the nearest demon, watching the blade bury itself in its head with a wet crunch. He rubs his palms on his shirt and reaches for the sword he's carrying, lightning-fast as he twirls and swings his arm in a wide arc, killing two demons with a single blow, their heads flying off their necks, downing another one with a stab and twist, all the time aware of his father behind him, hearing Angel's grunts as he cuts his own swath through the enemy. 

It seems to go on forever, their numbers only gradually starting to dwindle and then, abruptly, it's all over. The last body falls at Connor's feet, splashing filthy water onto his already soaked pants, the noise too loud in the now silent alley. All he can hear is his own breath, harsh and panting, and his heart slamming against his ribcage. And the rain, still falling, harder now. The winged creature Spike was fighting earlier is lying broken over a mass of bodies, but as Connor's eyes search the alley he can't find Spike anywhere. It crosses his mind that maybe they won't find Spike at all–-if he's dead too the rain won't leave any trace of his ashes behind. 

Connor turns around and sees his father looking at him. 

Angel's face and clothes are smeared with gore and there's a gash on his cheek, his eyes dark as he meets Connor's own. He rakes his gaze worriedly over Connor from head to toe and back up to Connor's face again, and Connor feels it as intensely as if Angel were touching him. 

Through the adrenaline still pumping through him and the sting of his own wounds, Connor feels something stir inside him, deep in his core, so deep it makes his guts twist and his heart flutter, makes his knees shake and his very soul tremble. The growing sense of urgency that had driven him to Wolfram & Hart tonight, that had brought him to this alley, it solidifies inside him now, takes root and shows its face to him, unashamed. 

And Connor smiles. 

His father had died in an alley, killed and sired by his mother. Connor was born in one, saved by her. It was raining that night. Connor doesn't know how he knows that, but he knows it's true. It's raining now, on this night, in this alley, and he feels- 

He feels born again. As he looks back at his father, he feels as if they both are.

Angel's eyes grow wide as Connor steps nearer to him, slowly, closing the short distance between them. Connor imagines Angel's face as it must've looked that night, the shock of Darla's death, a mother's final act of love for her unborn child. He imagines the joy of his birth warring inside Angel with the grief, his father's determination to keep him safe as he lifted him in his arms and held him close to his chest. 

In this single instant Connor acknowledges to himself all the sacrifices his birth parents had made for him, so many truths burning in him all at once, gratitude, so much love. Yet a child's love is not the only thing flaring inside him as he stands in front of his father, Connor's face turned slightly up to his. Angel blinks when Connor lets the sword he's still carrying fall to the pavement, but never takes his eyes off of Connor's. The sound of Connor's heart is louder than the brief clang of steel, clearer, the light blazing through him purer than the flickering amber that spills down from the lampposts, trying in vain to illuminate the darkness around them. 

_Go_ , his father told him tonight. _Leave, go back to your family._ And yet Connor stayed. 

His family's here.

 _No_ , Angel said when he saw him. 

But Connor's choice is made. 

So: "Yes," Connor tells him as he reaches to stroke his father's cheek, Angel's surprised gasp brushing against Connor's lips. And: "Yes," Connor whispers, pressing himself closer to Angel, fusing their mouths together, kissing Angel more deeply than he's ever kissed anyone before, not only with lips and tongue and teeth, but with his heart, with his soul, with his very essence. 

Angel moans into Connor's mouth, and Connor hears Angel's sword clatter to the ground too, the sound seeming so distant. They both wrap their arms around each other, holding, clinging, crushing their bodies together as they let all the hurt and regret fall away, as they strip their hearts of the accusations and the terrible, all too human mistakes and leave room only for this, only for now. Only for the future. 

No more pretense. Not a lie, Connor tells him with his kiss. Never any lies between them, only fear like a veil over their eyes, but that's gone now, too, and all that's left is love, love, oh, so much of it, so deep and wide and bright, so right. The son in the arms of the father and the father in the arms of the son, both of them safe at last, home at last. 

The circuit made whole. 

Later, much later, after they've washed the gore off themselves and patched their wounds, after Angel's taken care of his fallen friends-–Spike's okay after all--after Connor's called his parents to make sure they're all right and told them he's not coming back to school just yet, Angel's the one who whispers 'yes' as he pushes into Connor, everything Connor is opening up to receive him, Connor's blood calling to Angel's, both of them the same, made from each other, for each other. Angel leans to press his lips to Connor's chest, over Connor's heart as they make love, and Connor holds his father to him, his hands seeking the place on Angel's back where wings would be. 

"Angel," Connor murmurs, breathless and trembling under him, and, "Dad." His legs are wrapped tightly around Angel's waist, pulling his father deeper into him with each of his thrusts, Connor's insides needing to be filled, a vessel for Angel's love, trust and acceptance bursting open between them, flowing as one with their pleasure. 

"Connor," Angel moans into Connor's mouth. "My son, mine," he vows, and Connor moans in reply, giving Angel his breath, Angel's hand lying now over Connor's heart in place of his lips. And as Connor closes his eyes and cries out wordlessly, as his body seizes under and around Angel's, as Connor comes for him, he wills Angel to know that this heart beating inside him is his too, has always been his, will always be his. 

Later still, when Connor's lying drowsy and happy in Angel's arms, Angel spoons against him, his chest to Connor's back, knees drawn up behind his. Connor reaches for Angel's hand and brings it to his chest again, and he feels Angel's lips curl into a smile against his ear just before he whispers, "My heart." 

With an answering smile on his lips, safe in the knowledge that he's where he belongs, Connor falls asleep. And even though there are no wings on Angel's back, in Connor's dreams his father lifts him in his arms and they fly.


End file.
